Control
by Queen of the Castle
Summary: Draco delivers a wakeup call to his father. Background Harry/Draco slash.


Author's Notes: Written pre-HBP, so it's made AU by the later canon.

* * *

Control. It's a magnificent thing. The ability to bend someone to your will... it's intoxicating. Not to mention very practical.

In my life, I've come across levels of control that some men can only dream about. I have experienced absolute control, such as that the Imperious Curse usually awards. But that kind of control doesn't attract me like compliance does. To have someone follow you because you have made them believe that you're right is the ultimate thrill.

Most parents have some control over their children, but those children could rebel if they saw fit. I, however, could probably have ordered my son to throw himself off his broomstick at maximum height and he would have obeyed without question, just because I was the one who'd asked it of him.

It often amazes me that a boy as stubborn as Draco would stand for the way I govern his life. He certainly has a will of his own, and he's actually quite intelligent when you take certain Gryffindor boys out of the equation (for he acts quite foolishly around them). But he tolerates it – thrives on it, if I'm not mistaken – because I brought him up to do just that. I've sculpted him well.

A true master of the practice must find a balancing point. I dote on Draco just enough for him to mouth off with thousands of "my Father" lines, and to have pride in his heritage. Then when we're in public, or when I find time to train him at home, I dish out orders and he abides by them.

When he was fourteen years of age, I told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was to date – and eventually marry – someone well-known and respected, not to mention fairly good-looking. He did not dispute it, but rather asked me who I thought would suit him.

This is the perfect example of the way he has always capitulated to me. This is the boy I raised.

So imagine my surprise when my son – whom I've always controlled as a puppeteer controls his marionettes – strolls in the door the day he returns from his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and tells me he has 'feelings' for a boy and is moving in with him. That said, it's nothing compared to what I feel when he mentions the boy's name.

"_Harry Potter_?" I shout. But since Malfoys do not often shout, especially when a whisper can convey the point just as well, I quickly drop my voice to a degree of deadly calm. "You aren't serious."

"Very serious, Father," Draco replies confidently, acting as if he's merely mentioned yet another tale of his classroom antics. As much as his more ridiculous activities at school have always distressed me, those at least would only gain him detention at worst. This will have much greater consequences. "I thought you'd be pleased," he adds, his tone bordering on disrespectful. "He fits all of your criteria."

My blood boils and my voice wavers slightly in quiet anger. "You cannot possibly be serious," I repeat, and the boy just shrugs. "Surely you could have guessed that I meant that you should date a _woman_ of those standards. Surely I have not raised a son as _thick_ as you would have me believe you are being at this moment."

Draco smirks ever so slightly, as if he's aware that a fully-formed simper would be enough to evoke a very harsh beating at this point in time.

"It's funny, Father, that you feel so strongly about this, and yet you didn't clarify any such thing when you gave me all the conditions. I wouldn't dare to _presume_ anything of you, so how was I to know?"

This cannot be where my brilliantly-enforced control of him crumbles. I don't want to see him leave after such words. Surely I can manipulate him just that little bit more, bend his will to suit mine. But somehow it doesn't seem to me that that will work in this situation. He's complied with my orders until now, but something has changed. Now he acts just like all of the other little brats his age; able to rebel when he sees fit. The Potter boy has had a bad influence, obviously. I refuse to believe that my son is not better than them, for admitting that would mean conceding that I am like other parents. And I am so much better than all of them.

In a last ditch effort, I forbid him from leaving the house. Draco's grey eyes – such perfect copies of my own – glint at me, filled with a kind of defiant glee that I've never before seen in them. I immediately know that he's not just going to take this order. The wall of control has cracked, and now the dam is breaking free. I'm losing my hold on him.

Or rather, it's already lost.

"You know Father, believe it or not, I am seventeen years old and therefore I'm of age. I can make my own decisions, now. And I've decided that I'm leaving." He turns away from me.

I literally growl at him. "So you're going to live with him at the home of his Muggle relatives, are you? You're going to live with those inferior beings that would attempt to subjugate you because they're jealous of your magic?"

"No," Draco replies evenly. "I'm staying at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."

I am livid. Doesn't he realise how foolish he's being? He's going to be killed over some ridiculous _boy_ he fancies himself taken with! "I will not be responsible for this!" I spit. "If you want to go whore yourself to a boy who is fated to die, then so be it! Do not expect me to save you when the Dark Lord tortures and kills you right along with Potter. I will not so much as _pity_ you."

Something like hurt flickers in Draco's eyes before he quickly covers it up. The boy is still a Malfoy in some ways, obviously. "Thank you, Father," he says quietly, "for letting me know exactly where I stand. But I know that prophecy just as well as you do – better, I dare say – and so I know that there is a high chance that Harry will win that fight. I don't think I could save you if that happened either."

There is a clattering sound followed by hushed voices outside the house, and Draco smiles wistfully. "That sounds like my ride. Goodbye, Father, and I sincerely hope that the next time I see you isn't in battle."

With a last desperate cry, I shout after him, "You are still mine to control! You are a Malfoy by name and nature, and you _will_ act like it! I've dictated your actions all your life. I can determine when you die, and don't think I won't!"

Draco smiles condescendingly, which only serves to heighten my anger. "Oh Father," he says, "you don't control me. You once did, I'll admit, but I've long since realised that it's impossible to master someone when _you_ are in service." He pauses to let that sink in. "You've obviously let pride and power cloud your vision. So let me make it clear; you are the Dark Lord's puppet, not the puppeteer. And no one – not even someone as weak-willed as I have acted these past years – can be controlled by a mere puppet."

He turns and strides back out the door the way he came in. I stare after him, dumbstruck.

Idiot boy. Doesn't he realise after all these years that I'm better than the masses? How could he group me with those other Death Eaters? I am the Dark Lord's most trusted servant.

I purposely ignore the traitorous thought that the Dark Lord trusts no one, and that Draco has the right of it after all.

~FIN~


End file.
